Under Starry Skies (2 page)

“I will. Thank you again for the advice.” She smiled graciously, then gazed at the station manager. “Would you please secure the canvas on those crates? I’d prefer not to advertise the wares.”

“Ah-hh, I see.” The station manager nodded knowingly and winked. “Why, yes, of course. I’ll tie ’em down so secure even a field mouse won’t be able to crawl under.”

“I appreciate it.” Relieved, Abigail left the station and stopped for a minute to get a feel for the land. Outside, the day was warm and sunny. Not a cloud skidded across the bright blue sky towering over a sea of aspen marching up the river, their coats just beginning to turn a rich gold. In the marshes upstream, a duck complained. Somewhere along the riverbank, someone had started a campfire, and the smell of wood smoke mingled with the breeze. Several yards in front of her, a tall, lean man stood near the water’s edge, staring into its shadowy depths. He wore a simple cotton shirt beneath a buckskin jacket, too heavy for the unusually warm weather. A gun was strapped to his hip, and a rifle lay among his belongings on the bank. His hair, dark as fine onyx, sparkled under the sun’s rays, framing a pensive lean face. When he turned to walk farther up shore, Abigail noticed his faint limp. She stepped off the platform and hurried after him.

“Tye Ashmore?”

The man turned abruptly.

“I’ve heard you might be heading downriver.”

“Might be.” He eyed her warily. His eyes were dark, almost brooding. They were the kind of eyes that would never betray his deepest thoughts. His tall, muscular frame reminded Abigail of a sleek timber wolf, guarded and distant.

“Station manager tells me the regular flatboat operator is off today. We need to get to the dock at Pueblo and then to Golden. Perhaps you’d be willing to lend a hand?”

Abigail watched his gaze drop to the mailbag, and he muttered something indiscernible, maybe undesirable, under his breath. “No, miss, I’m sorry.”

“I’m willing to pay.”

He shook his head. “Not interested.”

Disappointed, she stared at him. This was not what she needed to hear. There was no way they could stay overnight at Canon City. Little more than a crossroads for those headed north or south on the Arkansas River, it had once been a stop for early travelers and Ute Indians who crisscrossed the lands and used the hot springs located nearby for medicinal purposes. The landing contained only a sparse outcropping of buildings. It wouldn’t be easy to find a place to stay or eat—with or without money. Wearily, she turned back toward the station.

“Wait!” he called after her. “No offense, but I’m just not fond of dead people. I’d be willing to take the mail off your hands.”

She swung around. “Oh, no! I’ve just agreed to deliver it safely to Pueblo for two dollars. The cash can line my pockets just as easily as yours.” She took a breath and paused, searching for the right words to convince him to change his mind. “If it’s the coffins you’re afraid of, I assure you, my dear cousins are harmless. They did not die from any fever or contagious diseases. Adam and Joshua are as clean as a new bottle of Canadian whiskey. They were killed in an unfortunate wagon mishap, God rest their souls. And to think, after surviving the horrors of the War. The irony of it all!”

Tye walked to where she stood. “It’ll cost you some cash,” he drawled, a scowl cutting a valley of creases onto his suntanned forehead. “Five dollars for you and your companions, and five for the coffins and baggage. Ten, total.”

Abigail hesitated, frowning. It was a considerable amount to part with. Yet, there was no place for them to stay until tomorrow unless she could convince the tender at the stable to allow them to use the hayloft. “You cut a hard bargain, Mr. Ashmore,” she finally said. “My name’s Abigail O’Donnell.”

He ignored her. “Let’s see the cash, little lady.”

“Oh my, certainly.” With reserved anger, Abigail set the mailbag aside, tore open the strings on her reticule, and dropped one of the gold eagles the station manager had just given her into his outstretched, callused palm. She looked him squarely in the eyes as she spoke, “Now a deal is a deal. Please get the boat loaded and be careful with the two crates on the platform. My mother’s finest crystal and bone china are packed inside. Even the slightest jolt could shatter them, Mr. Ashmore.”

He snickered and removed his hat. A head of unruly dark hair tumbled out. He bowed, and waved his hand like a gentleman of royalty before replying, his voice full of mock sarcasm. “As you wish, my lady, but first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my own belongings aboard.” He limped down the riverbank and gathered his saddlebags, rifle, and ring flask.

Amos came to stand beside her, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his baggy trousers fastened to his tall, stick-like figure with an oversized worn belt. “What’s in the crates, child? Tell me you didn’t get yourself mixed up in some devilish scheme already?”

“Just some explosives headed for Cripple Creek.”

“Nitroglycerin? Oh, heavenly Father. Oh, Mother of mercy!” The old man’s gnarled hands flew into the air, the whites of his eyes rounding into two full moons. “Who talked you into that cockeyed idea?”

“Hush, Amos, will you? I haven’t told Mr. Ashmore yet.” Abigail threw her hands out and caressed the air, palms down. “It’s safe. I checked the crates myself. There’s enough straw to secure those bottles and feed a plow horse.”

“Mercy, mercy, child, I don’t care whether it’s in straw or ten tons of fresh goose feathers. You got to be plumb crazy to ride a river with cargo like explosives.”

“Hush, I said!” She shot him a warning look and whispered, “If Mr. Ashmore hears you, he won’t agree to help us. He’s not the most friendly or trusting man I’ve ever met. He thinks the crates are filled with bone china and delicate crystal. And the river will certainly be a lot smoother than some old rutted, backwoods trail, for heaven’s sake.”

“Nitroglycerin ain’t fussy about where or how it blows, Missy. If you think the man isn’t friendly now, I don’t reckon he’ll be any more pleasant when he finds out the truth.” He shook his head. “I ain’t goin’, no sir-reee.”

Abigail squinted up at him. “Well, that’s your choice, Amos. I suggest you light out this very minute and start walking or hitch yourself a ride. We’re going to need help unloading those coffins when we get to Pueblo. We can’t allow them to bob around on a clumsy boat all night, and certainly not with explosives as bunk mates.”

“If the boat blows to pieces, you won’t have to worry about your poor cousins,” Amos said sourly.

Abigail grabbed his sleeve and shook it. Her words came out in a soft hiss. “Now listen. We’ve just been paid ten dollars apiece to get those crates a mere forty miles downstream. I’ve had to pay Mr. Ashmore half of it for his help. With money from the remaining crate and two dollars for the mail, we can at least face my uncle without feeling like a passel of paupers. In fact, we might be able to get something decent to eat in Pueblo before we start raiding his pantry like starving crows. Think about it.”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Abby, with what you’re totin’ we have a good chance of never eating again.”

Together they watched Tye Ashmore stride up the bank toward the landing’s platform and the covered crates. “Hold up, there, mister!” Amos called out, brushing past Abigail. His bowed legs high-stepped across the grassy bank. “Let me lend a hand with that there boney china and crystal. Gotta be gentle with it! Mighty gentle. Takes two people to do it right.”

A thin smile played on Abigail’s face as she followed the antics of the old man. It was the fastest she had ever seen him move in the last five years. Elbowing Tye Ashmore aside, he delicately lifted one side of a crate, babbling instructions to the younger man in his soft deep voice.

A northern free slave for many years, Amos had been hired by her father to help with the household after her mother died of pneumonia when they lived in New York. He had no family. He had never once mentioned his exact age, but Abigail guessed he was closer to seventy than sixty.

Minutes later, Abigail picked up her skirts and headed down the bank toward the flatboat. Tasks finished, Tye Ashmore had moved aside and was now in deep conversation with her sister. Abigail wondered how they both would react when she told them about the contents of the crates. And she’d have to tell them soon. Just not too soon—once they were well out on the river and the idea of returning was impossible.

“I imagined the new school teacher to be much older.” She heard Tye say as she hurried to where Maria stood. “To be honest, I didn’t know the town’s selection committee had made a decision.”

Maria flushed a deep crimson. “I’m almost twenty-two, and I have the proper credentials, I assure you. I attended the Harris-Stow Normal School in St. Louis, and I’ve already taught for a year in Utah.” She bent down, took her sketchbook from the top of her trunk, and pressed it possessively to her breast. “And just how old are you, Mr.—?”

“—Ashmore. Tydall Ashmore, but I prefer Tye. I’m twenty-eight.” He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “And I’m certain your credentials are the finest. It’s the rowdy youngsters of our miners, trappers, and ranchers that you may need some help with. But rest assured, you’ll have a dozen men rushing to your aid, no doubt. It’s not often Golden gets two attractive women for the price of one.” He reached down and lifted the trunk to his shoulder like it was a box of air.

Abigail interrupted with a soft snort. “If you, Mr. Ashmore, keep moving at your present pace, I fear the school year will be half over before we arrive.”

He turned and glared at her, then placed the trunk on the boat and spoke to Maria. “Is your sister always so… so…”

“Bossy?” Maria asked.

“I was looking for the word
impertinent
.” Tye took Maria gently by the elbow and guided her aboard the boat rocking gently on the water.

“Yes. And maybe just a tad temperamental.” They shared a smile. “Abigail was born with a short fuse. She’s older than I am by three years, so she erroneously believes she’s always in charge.”

Once the women were seated, Tye whistled shrilly. From among the reeds along the riverbank, a compact muscular dog with a mottled coat of white and blue black came barreling up the ramp. A dark black patch of fur encircled his left eye. He stopped and sat obediently at Tye’s side, tail beating a staccato tune on the weathered boards. He looked up with deep brown, expectant eyes, waiting for the next command. Tye Ashmore bent, rubbed the dog behind his ears, and pointed to a place at the front of the boat. The dog obediently ambled toward his spot but paused as he reached the first tarp-covered crate. He sniffed it and growled low in his throat.

“It’s all right, Swamp,” Tye said and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s only china and fine women’s doodads. I guess this trip will be much more than we originally bargained for, huh, partner?” He pointed to the spot again, and the dog looked suspiciously at the crate one more time, but obediently ambled over and dropped down, head resting on his front paws, eyes and ears alert. Tye turned and nodded his thanks to the old man who had collected the few loose bags left on shore and was piling them beside the trunks.

“On my blessed mother’s grave, you sure said a mouthful there, sir,” Amos agreed, and with shaking hands, he hurried to the back of the boat to check the lashings on the coffins and crates.

Chapter Two

Tye Ashmore unfastened the crude hemp rope mooring the small flatboat to the weathered dock and cast off. It wasn’t difficult to propel the boat downstream. The river with its gentle current, swollen from incessant late summer rains, offered little resistance. Overhead, the sun spread its amber warmth over the colorful landscape. Pungent green spruce and pine dotted the riverbanks along with various kinds of reeds and scrub brush, thick and tangled, pushing their way down to the shoreline as their roots searched for water. At the back of the boat, Maria was seated atop her trunk with her sister.

The young school teacher’s nervousness did not go unnoticed. Surreptitiously, Tye watched her gaze flit over their meager belongings and linger on the coffins, an undisguised fear marring her face. Her hands fidgeted with a corner of her sketchbook. For a moment, he had the urge to give her some words of condolence. For he, too, once knew the fear of leaving familiar surroundings, coming to the West, and he, too, knew the taste of death.

But the death he had known had always haunted him. He had been only fourteen when a group of men had come to their house in Virginia, insisting his father enlist his oldest sons in the Confederate cause. A fight erupted and someone pulled a gun. His mother, Rebecca, stepped in front of her husband and took the bullet meant for him. Tye and his sister, Betsy, had watched while his older brothers, Flint, Marcus, and Luke took down the five men in a haze of smoke. Their father wasted no time burying his wife and loading their wagons to come west. Thomas Ashmore had wanted no part of the Civil War. He had never owned any slaves. Together, the six of them had set out and traded their lives of eastern farmers for western ranchers.

Tye glanced down and studied his hands. Callused and hardened by long hours in the sun and rain, they were hands of a man who knew how to work horses, cattle, and the land. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he had already lived another fourteen years in the West. Next year, the Colorado Territory was hoping for statehood, and he was proud he was going to be part of it. He would be the first to admit he had fallen in love with the rich landscape where everything was wide open and free, and a man could earn a living by sweat, long hours, and honest hard work. And if the days were lengthy, the nights were worth the wait. The heavens above turned as dark as the inside crown of a black felt hat and were strewn with millions and millions of glorious stars.

He shoved his pole into the water and turned to watch Amos lay his pole aside and move between the coffins at the back of the boat, then shuffle over to the crates. The old man was acting fitful, out of sorts. In the last half hour, he had repeated the routine again and again. He reminded Tye of an old trapped barn cat itching to be set free. Each time Amos made his rounds, his wrinkled eyes strayed to Abigail who smiled reassuringly. Maybe he couldn’t swim. Maybe he was afraid of water. Or maybe he feared the flatboat would upset and leave them in the same sad shape as the men inside the two coffins. Whatever was eating at the old codger, Tye knew it was eating at him like a consuming fever.